If you’re a down draft, I’m an escaped photograph. When you’re a full moon, children disappear from home. For every nickel you turn in your fingers a bottle fly Files its nails. When you see your face reflected, it Sees you as you once were when you were elsewhere. When flocks fly for you, you let them scatter your neurons. When you were a tin can I shot you many times over. If you’re a beggar, I’m turning a corner to face you. Were you a hatband, were I grosgrain ribbon, would I invite you to move into my neighborhood forest. When you’re a fox, I’m a fox, we’re thinking of stealing something. You are that tired old porch light someone’s left burning. I’m a shy green moth short on memory and handcuffs. Silver lines you drew me through have cost me my life.